


Another Place in Time

by Krislmart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Altered Reality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Feels, False Memories, M/M, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Institutions, Pre-Relationship, Season/Series 15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-27 04:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21385852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krislmart/pseuds/Krislmart
Summary: Dean wakes up at Bobby's house with the feeling that everything is wrong. That feeling only continues to grow as he comes to realize that something, or someone, is missing.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 41





	Another Place in Time

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came about because of a Tumblr request asking for an angsty Destiel fic based off of the "Berenstein" by The Band Camino. I took the idea and tweaked it a little and then it ran away with me. My heart hurt writing this and I had to take a couple of breaks. I hope the requester enjoys this angst-fest!
> 
> Here's the song if you want to listen: [Berenstein](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_rksTruhAKk)

The light was way too bright and Dean was not happy about it. He stretched, grumbling and attempting to block the rays of sunshine filtering through the blinds.

_ Blinds _ ? His mind questioned before a sharp rap sounded on his door.

“Are you going to sleep the whole day away, idjit?” Bobby’s gruff voice called out.

“It’s barely nine old man,” Dean yelled. “We’re between cases and some of us don’t go to bed at eight.”

“So sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep, but if you’re not downstairs soon there won’t be any food left.” The sound of Bobby’s footsteps receded. Dean flopped onto his back, staring at the ceiling. He was feeling unsettled but couldn’t quite pinpoint why. With a shrug, he threw his legs over the side of the bed and got ready to head downstairs.

Dean walked into the kitchen, immediately heading toward the coffee pot. “Bout time you made your way down here,” Bobby grumbled.

Turning to make a smart remark, a wave of sadness and nostalgia flooded Dean. “Bobby,” he almost whispered.

“Lost your voice, boy?” Bobby paused what he was doing to stare at Dean. 

Dean cleared his throat and tried to shake off the weird feelings. “Just need some coffee,” he quipped. His mind raced trying to understand why he suddenly felt like he hadn’t seen Bobby in years. It was almost as if he didn’t expect Bobby to be alive, which was odd. Of course they had some close calls over the years but nothing recently. He poured a cup of coffee and glanced around the kitchen. “Where’s Sam?”

“Off for a run,” Bobby said as he flipped a pancake. “Should be back any minute now.”

As he finished speaking, the front door opened. In the back of Dean’s mind, he heard a loud, creaking metallic sound. He took in a deep breath, wondering what brought that on. 

Later that day, he and Sam were discussing a potential case. Several people in a small Oklahoma town had died in the exact same way as characters in comic books. One or two “comic book deaths” could be overlooked but five people had died over the past couple of weeks. Dean’s inner nerd was geeking out off the possibility of a comic book murderer. Part of him knew it could be a witch but he was hoping for some type of haunted object. 

“Ahh, I can’t wait to tell Charlie about this,” Dean said, pulling his phone out.

Sam shot him a confused look. “Who’s Charlie?”   
Looking away from his phone, Dean just looked at Sam. “What do you mean who is Charlie? Bradbury? Queen of Moondor?” He shook his head and started scrolling through his messages. Weird, he could have sworn she should be there, that he had messaged her recently. Flipping to his contacts, he checked it twice with no luck.

“That’s weird,” Dean mumbled.

“Funny,” Sam said. “I was going to say the same thing. I still don’t know who Charlie is. Is she a Hunter?”

Dean shoved his phone in his pocket and straightened up. “Come on Sam. Charlie helped us with Dick Roman. She -” He froze, remembering. “She helped us find out how to remove the Mark and died for it.”

Sam reached out, grabbing Dean’s shoulder. Funnily enough, his shoulder twinged, almost like he had been burnt. “Dean, no one named Charlie has helped us on a case. We’ve never had anything to do with Dick Roman. Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been acting a little odd lately.”

Dean closed his eyes. This wasn’t right. Something was wrong, horribly wrong. But he didn’t know how to tell Sam that, so instead he cracked a smile. “Yeah Sammy I’m fine. I think I’m coming down with something. Haven’t been sleeping that great, ya know?”

“If you say so.” Sam didn’t look like he quite believed him but thankfully was letting it rest. 

Dean hadn’t completely lied to Sam; he hadn’t been sleeping well at all. He kept having odd dreams that felt familiar and strange simultaneously. Broken bits clung to his thoughts when he woke up: brilliant blue, thunder, an old tan coat, and a grumbly voice. Last night had been the weirdest one yet. He remembered a low, rough voice saying “The things we’ve shared together, they have changed me. You’re my family. I love you. I love all of you.” He had woken up with tears running down his face and no idea why.

“I’m worried about Dean.”

Dean froze, hidden behind the door. He had been about to tell Sam and Bobby that he was running into town for some supplies when he overheard Sam. Now, he found he couldn’t move, waiting for Bobby’s response.

“You’re not the only one,” Bobby said. Dean’s stomach dropped.

“He keeps referencing things that haven’t happened or people I’ve never heard of before. It’s almost like some type of solitary Mandela effect. He believes he’s right and honestly, Bobby, I’m really worried.” Dean could almost imagine Sam running his hand through his hair, leaning back against his chair’s back.

“Well what do you want to do about it?” Dean almost smiled. Typical Bobby, cutting to the root of a problem with no beating around the bush. “It’s not like we can get him to talk to someone. You know your brother. He’s allergic to any type of feelings talk.”

The sound of a chair scraping made Dean jump. “I haven’t figured that out yet. When we were on that hunt in Oklahoma last week, he was talking in his sleep.”

Dean was at war with himself. Part of him wanted to run so that he wouldn’t be caught eavesdropping since Sam was clearly on the move. The other part of him was desperate to know what he said in his sleep. He had vivid dreams both nights they were in Oklahoma but he woke up unable to recall any concrete details. 

“He just kept saying ‘I need you. This isn’t you.’ over and over again.” Sam’s voice was dangerously close and Dean slowly slid out the back door. When he thought he was far enough away, he ran towards one of the old junkers in the scrapyard. Shutting himself in it, he rocked back and forth on the seat. What if he was crazy? Sam clearly didn’t remember any of this. There were a few times that it almost seemed like he was about to agree with Dean but then, he would correct Dean instead. 

He hid out in the old junker until he was sure that Sam and Bobby were both asleep or at the very least, in their own rooms. Silently he crept into the house and grabbed his go-bag. The feeling that something was missing, that something was infinitely wrong, kept building and building and now...well now Dean just needed to escape. He felt like he was trapped in a dream, a mockery of his real life. While he was in the car, he had looked up the Mandela effect. Part of him knew that these memories could be false but they felt so real. Shaking his head, he left his cell phone sitting on the kitchen table and, with one last look around Bobby’s house, he walked out of the door.

Dean drove aimlessly around the country. It was lonely yet freeing to not have to put on a front for Bobby and Sam. The dreams had intensified. Last night, he woke up sobbing, the image of a dark-haired man laying dead on the ground with the shadow of wings burned around him. He felt himself breaking. Answers, that’s what Dean needed. Traversing the country, he had tried to seek out psychics and other fortune tellers whenever he could. At one point, a fellow hunter told him that “if he was so determined to get his fortune told,” he should visit Lily Dale.

The miles rolled away under the Impala’s tires as he headed north. The night before he had researched Lily Dale and found it was a haven for mediums and psychics. Most of them were probably fakes but Dean held hope that at least one true, powerful psychic called Lily Dale home.

After several false starts and ridiculous encounters, a waitress in the local diner slipped a business card in Dean’s hand.  _ Melanie Golden _ was written in a smooth, cursive font. He walked to the address listed which was just down the street.

“Hello,” a dark-haired woman called out. “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

Dean nodded and busied himself with looking around the small sitting room. There were photos scattered around but none of the usual trappings of psychics that he had come to expect.

“What can I help you with?” a voice startled Dean from where he was studying a photo of an older woman hugging what had to be a younger version of the woman he now found behind him.

“Are you Melanie?” he asked, studying her closely. No signs of crystal pendants or any other psychic trappings.

“Yes, I am. And before you ask, yes I am a psychic. I don’t subscribe to all of the fluff and glitz that other psychics tend to lean into. I read people’s body language as well as palms. So, what do you want to ask me?” She leaned onto her right foot, arms loosely crossed in front of her.

“Sorry,” Dean softly murmured. “I’ve just had a lot of bad experiences with people who claim to be psychics or who claim to be able to do things they can’t.”

“You’re missing something,” she said, studying him. “You’ve lost someone, no, yes,” her voice faltered. Stepping closer to him, her eyes narrowed slightly. “Your energies are all off. I’m sorry, I don’t know what to tell you.”

Dean’s head hung low. “I should have realized that I wouldn’t get answers by now. I think I’m just going crazy,” he chuckled darkly.

“Wait,” Melanie called out before he walked out of the door. Dean stopped and glanced back at her. “Pontiac. I don’t know what it means, but I keep thinking the word Pontiac when I look at you.”

“Thanks,” Dean said, mind swirling around the word Pontiac.

After combing the internet for cases that could have involved any number of Pontiac cars. Then he googled “Pontiac name” and only found references to why Pontiac cars were named how they were. While the guy and the war were interesting, Dean didn’t really think they mattered to him. 

Something finally told him to google “Pontiac city.” He scoured all of the references which mainly concerned Pontiac, Michigan. Finally, he saw an entry that read “Pontiac, IL - Official Website.” He clicked it and was met with a large mural of the Route 66 sign. Without thinking, he closed the lid of his laptop, packed his bags and climbed into Baby, heading south toward Pontiac, Illinois.

He drove around the town, checking out the sights, not seeing anything that felt familiar. Finally he parked the car and decided to grab some food. Now that he thought of it, he couldn’t really remember the last time he ate. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he winced at the oiliness of it. He really should find a motel and clean up but his stomach’s loud growling decided for him. 

Walking up the sidewalk, a flash of tan caught his eye. Turning, all of the pieces slotted into place.

“Cas!” he yelled, running over to the man, whose blue eyes widened in fear.

Dean fisted his hands in the tan trenchcoat. “Cas, it’s you. How could I have forgotten you? Come on, man, we can figure this out. Why haven’t you been looking for me, Cas?” The words tumbled out with a hint of a sob. 

“Excuse me,” the man finally said.  _ His voice is all wrong _ , Dean thought.  _ It should rumble like gravel _ . “I don’t know who you are.”

“Come on, Cas,” Dean pleaded. The guy was trying to look anywhere but at Dean so Dean yanked him forward a little, forcing his gaze forward. “You can’t have forgotten me. You pulled me out of Hell.”

“Sir, are you okay?” a voice said behind them.

“We’re fine,” Dean choked out. 

“I wasn’t talking to you,” the voice, which belonged to a tall, female police officer, said. “Mr. Novak, do you know this man?”

“No,” the man said, casting worried eyes at Dean. 

Dean’s heart shattered. “No, Cas, no, no, no.” He was actually sobbing now. “I need you Cas. This isn’t you.” He tried to reach out but the female officer got in his way. 

“Sir, I need you to control yourself or I will need to take you in.” One of her hands was raised between herself and Dean but the other one rested near her hip where her handcuffs and gun were located.

Dean knew he was treading on thin ice but Cas was so near. The reason he had been having those dreams was so close and he couldn’t resist.

“But he does know me,” Dean pleaded. “His name’s Cas and he’s my best friend.”

“I’ve never met this man in my life,” not-Cas said. “My name isn’t Cas, it’s Jimmy Novak.”

“You’re his vessel,” Dean whispered to himself. Unfortunately, the officer heard him. 

“Sir, do you have anyone that we can call? You seem a little unwell.” She moved a step closer but Dean shoved past her.

“I’m fine. Or I will be,” he barked. “I just need to talk to Cas.”

“Does your brother suffer from any mental illness?” Dean could hear the officer talking to Sam. They had found Sam’s number in his new phone and called him. It took he and Bobby around eight hours to drive in from Sioux Falls and Dean had spent the night in jail. The officers had at least put him in his own cell but according to them, it was for the other prisoners’ safety, not his. 

He had heard them tossing around the words delusional, mentally ill, and facility. On one level, he knew that he should be worried about what was going to happen, but all he could think about was Cas.

“Can I see him?” Sam asked. The officer led him to a small room where they had already brought Dean.

“Heya Sammy,” he croaked. Dean had lost his voice earlier that day after several horrific nightmares. Now he wasn’t so sure if they were nightmares or memories that were flooding back.

“Dean, be honest with me. What’s going on with you?” Sam sat across from Dean, eyebrows drawn tight in concern.

“It’s Cas, Sam. He’s here. We’ve forgotten Cas.” Dean felt tears begin to slip out of his eyes. He had cried more in the last few days than he had before but he couldn’t help himself. He felt that he was falling apart but maybe, just maybe, if Sam believed him, it would help.

“Cas? That man is named Jimmy Novak and you should be grateful that he’s not pressing charges. Apparently he feels bad for you. Thinks you’re crazy and just need help.” 

Dean’s eyes flicked up to Sam’s. “And what do you think, Sam?”

“He might not be wrong. Look,” Sam held up a hand before Dean could interrupt. “Bobby and I were talking on the drive up and we think that maybe you need to talk to someone, get yourself together. I would rather you decide to get help on your own but Officer Milton told us that your symptoms are advanced enough that you can be involuntarily committed. You basically assaulted her and Mr. Novak, Dean. What is going on with you?”

Fear gripped Dean’s chest. “Sam something is going on. We’ve forgotten Cas. He was like a brother to you Sam and he was…” Dean trailed off. “He was everything to me and I don’t think I ever got the chance to tell him. Or maybe I did and that’s why we’re here. I ruin everything.”

“Will you go on your own, Dean?” Sam softly asked.

Sam looked like a watery version of himself through Dean’s relentless tears. “Yes,” he finally whispered.

Dean sat on his bed, a notebook in front of him. After three weeks at St. Andrew’s, he was still trying to determine what was real and what was imagined. His therapist had suggested keeping a diary that he could compare with Sam, Bobby and other friends once he was allowed to have visitors. She didn’t particularly like when he insisted that Cas was real. 

Dropping the notebook, Dean curled up on his side.

“Bring him back,” he whispered over and over. “I need him. Cas, please come back. I love-”

A dark chuckle sounded beside Cas. He looked to his right at the smoky visage of the Empty. 

“Are you still glad that he told you that he loved you?” the Empty mocked. “So happy but now, well now you’re both miserable. At least you can see him, even if you can’t communicate with him. He gets to dive deeper into madness.”

Cas ignored the Empty and kept watching Dean, tears streaming down his face. 

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry.   
Also, I didn't tag MCD because Cas isn't really dead, only taken by the Empty.
> 
> Come say hi or yell at me on [Twitter](https://www.twitter.com/krislmart) and [Tumblr](https://krislmart.tumblr.com).


End file.
